


Hands of Ice

by Charmtion



Series: We are Wolves [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Godswood, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 00:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17110781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmtion/pseuds/Charmtion
Summary: “I know nothing except that you are all, Sansa Stark — that you are everything.” His kiss is a bloom of white heat on her open lips. “That you aremine.”Two souls kneel before the heart tree and weave a song amongst its roots//Sansa thinks on those who have hurt her; Jon soothes the sting of memories.





	Hands of Ice

He finds her in the godswood, sunk on her knees before the great heart tree. The weirwood is eternal, endless — bone-white boughs and red-gold leaves that drift and twist across the deep black pool at its foot. She is the same: ivory cheeks turned to the heavens, hair red and rich as fire spilling down her back. _Endless, eternal — she belongs here_. The south tried to claim her, tried to make her queen and brother’s bride and bastard of the riverlands; yet here she is: here — she _is_.

The world is soft-fallen snow, red-gold leaves, the heavy scent of soldier pines willowing in icy air. His feet are soundless as a wolf’s — swift and cutting, pressing deep prints to be swallowed by snowflakes. Ivory and crimson; he is black and grey and white. His soul is ebony as the skies arching overhead — yet there is light speckled in its depths. There, in the great black pools of his eyes: starlight catches them and shines them violet. Here, in the warmth that bleeds in his bones as if her hair is flint as well as flame — striking the hearth of his heart and setting it ablaze.

“I swore before the Old Gods of the Forest that no man would ever touch me,” she whispers, her voice a lilting song tarrying with the red-gold leaves drifting, twisting, ebbing, flowing. “Seems all my life, men have touched me. Hands of gold, hands of fire, hands of blood… they’ve left palm-prints every inch of me.”

Bite of ice gnaws at his knees as he joins her before the great heart tree of the godswood. Soft-fallen snow bleeds through layers of wool and leather and felt — but here between the crooks of his ribs, his heart is a pulse of red-hot fire. He lifts a hand and frees bone-white fingers from the black velvet glove. She shivers to feel his touch at her throat, slipping hair red and rich as fire back from her ear — fingers whispering the taut column of knotted bone at her nape, cascading sweet and sharp as red-gold leaves the line of her shoulder. Rough thumbprint on her jaw: set so still and sure even as she trembles. Her profile is that of a queen, of a shield-maiden, of a warrior of old — she has endured all, she has endured _everything_. Yet here she is: here — she _is_.

“But you are not a man,” she whispers. “You are snow and shadow — you are hearth and home and heart tree.” Her eyes flare on his: sapphire and amethyst bleeding deep as wine. “Hands of ice cannot harm me.”

They come together in a breath: his mouth sinking the path his fingers forged on her throat. Her fingers pull into his black hair, her nails dagger-points gripping the shape of his skull. He follows her — moves his mouth from her throat to her lips. Her kiss is like her voice: lilting, lifting, tarrying with the red-gold leaves drifting, twisting, ebbing, flowing, _drowning_ … Her taste is like winter: ice-cold, ice-blue — blooming as a rose in a world of ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone. It is honey-sweet, nectar-sharp, syrupy and rich, clouding every part of him. He drinks it like a dying man — desperately, hungrily, laps it from her tongue and lets it drip as wine between his teeth.

Silver light plays with the red-gold drifts limning the great heart tree of the godswood. The weirwood is eternal, endless — it stands now as sentinel over a song of ice and fire entwined as vines amongst its roots. Ivory and crimson — black and grey and white. But here, _now_ , they are the same: they drift and twist and ebb and flow and drown. Her hair is red and rich as fire — it bleeds with the leaves and soft-fallen snow as she lies back beneath the eyes of the gods and stares up at him as he pulls with hands of ice the clasp off her cloak. She shivers — but not from the cold. She _used_ to be cold, she used to be frozen: ice-blue, ice-cold like a winter rose — but here, _now_ , she is something else. Something _warm_ , something good and liquid and sweet as honey dripping warm from its comb.

“I would never harm you,” he murmurs.

“I know,” she whispers. “I know, Jon Snow.”

“I know nothing,” he murmurs. “Except that you are all, Sansa Stark — that you are everything.” His kiss is a bloom of white heat on her open lips. “That you are mine.”

The world is soft-fallen snow, red-gold leaves, the heavy scent of soldier pines willowing in icy air. But it is something else, too — it is thighs shined silver in the moonlight, it is ivory fingers clutching shoulders of black velvet, it is mouths red-weeping as the weirwood tree’s lilting a song of breath and moan to drift and twist and ebb and flow as the leaves falling in red-gold wraiths around them. Her ribs rise against her skin as the bone-white boughs of the great heart tree — silver-grey rivers bleeding life amongst a world of ice and snow, hard frost and frozen stone. Bite of ice gnaws at their skin: prickles it with the sting of cold — yet here where they move together is a red-hot pulse of fire. She is arched and keening beneath him, sapphire eyes burning into deep black pools that shine violet in the starlight. _A song of ice and fire_ … Ivory and crimson; black and white and grey — they move high as eagles in the land of always winter, eddying snow-capped peaks, hurtling blue-grey skies, plunging hard, fast, breathless to soft-fallen snow.

“All,” he whispers, chasing her breath from her lips as he kisses her. “Everything.” They surge and sing against each other: a pulse of blood and bones and breath — a song of ice and fire, of ivory and velvet, of belonging. “Mine.”

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **NB** : after writing [We are Lost, Together.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992552) I have become something of a reluctant Jonsa convert (for now, only in the realms of fanfiction...) and this scene of them sheltering beneath the weirwood tree in Winterfell's godswood came to me sudden as a storm. As always, feel free to leave feedback etc. 🌙


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